


A Few Minutes In The Unproductive Life of Dean

by Baibaba



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baibaba/pseuds/Baibaba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean isn't depressed. He doesn't have writer's block. And he is definitely not in a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Few Minutes In The Unproductive Life of Dean

There was a summer storm building and gathering pressure to erupt like a volcanic explosion of warm rain in the city of Lawrence, Kansas. Dean’s knees had been aching for days, telling him the storm was indeed approaching and it would be happening soon. Dean had lived two lives in Kansas. 

The one before, when he had been a boy and his brother, Sam, had been a baby and his mother and father, John and Mary Winchester, had been married, did not matter so much now. It was only the foundations of who Dean was today. The past was covered in dirt, sealed in a plastic liner to prevent water damage with cement to keep him from completely shifting too much this way or that. He was indeed a house with a foundation that, as Sam would tell him if Dean ever said any of this out loud to another living human being, should be inspected and was in dire need of a renovation. 

His life at the moment was one filled with the sensation that his feet were, in the least impressive of realities, weighed down by cement blocks. His feet for days now could go no faster than what he had always pictured a zombie’s top mileage would be. Slow. Slow enough that Dean felt the clock mocking him as he listened to the ticks of the seconds pass by him faster than his legs could muster. 

He glared at his computer screen. It was a new computer, one he had bought with the advance the publishers had given him. The document had been saved with the title ‘SHIT’. It had exactly 69,999 words. Dean had not been able to type a single letter in weeks now, the number staring up at him. A small and raging part of him felt inclined to leave it there. To be apart of the authors from the 50’s who experimented with the written word to the point where the novel was less a story and more a practice of post modern art. To have no ending and no climax to a series of sentences that were barely worth writing let alone reading.

The other part of him told him to finish before Garth, his publicist, figured out that he was so incapable of writing a coherent sentence that they had mistaken him for the past seven years as someone with talent. This was why he had the document minimized and a window of porn open. A blonde woman looked up at him with demure eyes that contrasted sharply to how she was completely naked, her legs open in invitation for Dean to take his pleasure, never mind her’s, and to settle in the warmth that was promised in a her cherry-lip balm lips. 

He pictured briefly what it would feel like. To bury himself in the heat of a woman. How smooth her legs would be. The deep swell of her ass as he pulled her cheeks apart to reveal the supple lips. He would suffocate himself and die somewhat content in the crotch of a pretty blonde. 

Dean had been staring at the picture for over an hour now. His hand attempting to bring about some sort of arousal from him. But the picture did nothing. Maybe he was incapable of looking at women like this anymore. He had, in an effort to excite himself, created a story for this woman. 

Her name was ‘Naomi’. She was supporting herself through medical school by posing and revealing everything her body had for money. She wanted to be a neurosurgeon. Her mother, who had been a single mother, her father having run off with another woman, had died abruptly from an aneurism. She was so devoted to her goal that she was more than prepared to model her tits and pussy for everyman and woman who wanted could see. 

This had only made him more limp. His break from writing was taking another turn towards the upsetting. And Dean did not get ‘upset’. He gets angry and horny and happy. He gets happy. He does. Sam didn’t know what he was talking about. 

Maybe what was missing was a pair of hairy legs, broad shoulders, and a cock that was more than just a little happy to see him. In fact, the dick was weeping with joy at the very presence of Dean. 

Feeling like a pervert, he propped his cell phone on the desk. Ignoring the missed calls from Garth, he would eventually call him back but he had much more important things to do, like making sure he was not impotent and that today had just been a little off for him so far. He had woken up at two a.m. after only sleeping for barely three hours. He was restless. His legs itched to move, but his mind held him still like a clamp on his central nervous system. He felt infinitely tired, but he willed himself to get out of bed and prove to no one in particular that he was a functioning human being. And this right here, was only a step closer to proving without any doubt that he was a functioning man. 

Dean skipped through a few photos, looking for the right one. There were pictures of Sam and his girlfriend Ruby sharing a vanilla shake at the old pharmacy downtown. Ruby’s face set off another bout of frustration. She was an awful person. If god were real and heaven and hell existed, Ruby would no doubt have a lot in common with the devil. Dean was sure the two would be the best of friends. He quickly kept moving.

There were only a few pictures of Castiel Novak on his phone. Dean quickly skipped to the picture he wanted. It was a photograph he had taken when Castiel had stayed the night and had eaten breakfast with him. Castiel had a mouthful of eggs and bacon. His hair was a mess and his white shirt for work was unbuttoned and being a tease, showing a pale and hairless chest. There was no sign of the ugly blue tie he wore. In the picture Castiel was glaring at Dean. Dean could easily jump to the conclusion that Castiel would have a very similar expression on his face if he knew why Dean had taken this picture and why he had kept it. 

He unzipped and brought himself out into the cold and uncreative vacuum of a world he had stumbled into. Closing his eyes he pictured Castiel in the same pose as ‘Naomi’. His legs were open and welcoming. Thick dark hair going from his ankles and stopping at his thighs. Dean imagined running his hands up those legs and burying his face into the thick curls just below his navel. His cock hung heavy and big, twitching and excited against Dean’s throat. 

Castiel’s chest was red from the flush that he always had whenever they fooled around. Castiel, unlike ‘Naomi’ was not smiling demurely at him with a hint of shyness and maybe even an insinuation of virginity, but rather grimacing in discomfort from not being touched and his full lips open and wet and bruised and the promise of wanting more fueled Dean into a frantic pace towards reaffirming his male-ness and subsequently his very reason of existence. 

His phone rang again. Accidentally, his thumb twitched and hit the ANSWER button. It was Garth. Of course. Hearing Garth’s southern drawl had Dean flagging. He felt helpless as he witnessed his desire drain from him completely. He shoved himself back into his pants, zipping too fast and catching a stray pubic hair that was then yanked out without warning. 

Dean bit his fist, something John had always done when the anger could not be contained and had to emerge physically or else he might just explode from it all. Putting his phone to his ear, Dean caught the tail end to whatever Garth had been talking about. It was not that Garth talked a lot, it was just that Dean did not care what Garth had to say for the most part. Nearly 98% of what Garth said to Dean had nothing to do with Dean’s status as an author. It was almost too easy to tune the man out. 

Dean waited for a break in the seemingly endless one-sided conversation. “What did I say about calling me while I’m working, Garth?” Dean glared at the picture of ‘Naomi’ that was still on the screen and imagined Garth’s scruffy face. For the foreseeable future, he didn’t think he could ever get it back up again.

“Just wanted to check up on you. See how the book’s going.” Garth paused and Dean could tell he wanted to say something that would inevitably make Dean’s mood worse than it already was. But Garth wouldn’t be so Garthy if he didn’t say everything single thought in his head. “Sam called. Told me you haven’t left the house in a week. I’m concerned.”

“I’ve left the house.” It had actually been eight days since Dean has ventured outside his house. The walls had already begun to close in on him, but he ignored the dry wall. No one in Lawrence had seen the sun in days. The storm that was crowding the sky, threatening to burst at any minute and this had been going on for the past week. “I’m fine.”

“I can call a therapist. I got a few on speed dial that are just aces, really.” Papers were being shuffled. Dean turned his computer screen off. He was tired of being reminded of how he wasn’t a good writer. Of having ‘Naomi’ stare at him in disappointment. 

“Garth, I swear to god if you call--“

“Mental health is very important to me and it should be to you too.”

“I am not insane, Garth. I’m just trying to work.”

“All right, all right. I get it. Just mail me the draft soon. Within the next month. We got deadlines, Dean. And by ‘we’ I do include you too.”

“Will do.”

“My momma always said to flap your arms like a bee.”

“I don’t even know what that means. I think my brain just killed itself.”

“She was a good woman. You’d have liked her. Made the best biscuits East of Kentucky.”

“Sounds like a hell of a woman.” Dean tried to force a smile into his voice without having to move the muscles, “You’ll get the book when you get the book, until then don’t call me.” Dean pushed end and tossed his phone onto the couch. He had the whole day now that he didn’t have to think about returning any of Garth’s messages. But now a new problem shifted into his brain, sidling up to his other 69,999 problems.

Sam was worried about him for no reason. Really. Dean was fine. He ate, at the very least, three meals a day. He showered. He put on pants for the majority of the week. He was an upstanding citizen. And if he didn’t leave his house, one that he owned and paid a mortgage on every month right on time, it was none of Sam’s business.


End file.
